A guy walks into a bar...
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: Having a conscience comes at a price.


Disclaimer: Big O and related characters are property of Sunrise, Inc. Original story property of me.  
  
  
  
A guy walks into a bar..  
  
By The Lady Razorsharp  
  
  
  
The phone rang, disturbing the silent pool of morning with ripples of noise. Almost lazily, a hand reached for the receiver, plucking the handset from its cradle mid-ring.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I have a question for you."  
  
"I have an answer."  
  
There was a slight chuckle on the other end. "Let's hope my question matches up with your answer."  
  
"Right."  
  
"Usual place?"  
  
"Mm-hm. I'll be there around 12, if you want to stop by."  
  
"I'll do that. Thanks."  
  
The line went dead as the hand replaced the receiver on the cradle. The same hand opened a drawer in a worn metal desk, then pulled out a compact radio from the depths of the drawer. "Sophie," called a man's voice.  
  
A young girl with blonde pigtails came at the run. "Yes, Papa?" she asked breathlessly, stopping in the doorway to the small office.  
  
The man pulled his trenchcoat from the rack at his right. "I've got some errands to run this morning," he said, slipping the jacket on and tying the belt. "I won't be back until after lunch." The man pulled on a pair of brown leather gloves, then dropped his hand back into the drawer, out of his daughter's line of sight. "You know what to do, don't you?"  
  
"Yes, Papa. Don't answer the phone, and don't open the door until I hear the password," the girl chirped, knowing the words by heart.  
  
It made him sick to realize that she knew such things by heart, made him sicker to remember why it was necessary. Even so, he managed a smile. "Good girl. Now pick a password and write it down, then let me see it." He closed the drawer; why had he left it open? With a mental shrug, he retrieved a newly sharpened pencil from the cup on his desk, gathering up a small writing tablet as well. He handed both to his daughter.  
  
Coming forward to take the pad and pencil her father proffered, Sophie sat in the chair opposite him. "Hmm," she said, her young brow furrowed in concentration for a moment.  
  
"Remember, don't pick one you've used before," he reminded her.  
  
"I know," Sophie murmured, deep in thought. Suddenly, her smile brightened, and she printed a single word in her childish hand. "There."  
  
Her father took the pad from her and studied the word she had written. "All right. Would you care to do the honors?"  
  
Sophie grinned. "Sure I would!" After dragging her father's heavy agate ashtray closer, she took the pad and ripped away the top page, then laid the paper in the ashtray. The first step complete, she turned back to her father, perusing his trenchcoat with a critical eye. "Now.where is it hiding?" she wondered aloud, scrunching up one corner of her mouth.  
  
The man smiled again. He couldn't remember when this had turned into a game, but it was better than trying to lie to the child. She would have spotted a lie, anyway; she definitely took after him in that respect. "See if you can find it," he said, holding his arms away from his sides.  
  
"There!" Sophie crowed, pouncing on his left hip pocket. She brought the item out; to her disappointment, it was a pack of gum. "Rats. I was sure that was it."  
  
Chuckling, the man shook his head. "You've got two tries left."  
  
"Umm," Sophie said, narrowing her blue eyes at another possible target. "My next guess is your inside pocket."  
  
"Really, now?" The man reached into the pocket in question, and smiled as he watched his daughter's face light up in pleasure. "It so happens that you're right," he said, placing the satiny square of his brushed silver lighter into her hand.  
  
Sophie took the lighter, weighing it in her hand. "I always forget how heavy it is," she mused, running her fingers over the faded inscription. "'To my dearest John, Happy Heaven's Day, from your loving wife, Emma.'"Glancing up at her father, she fixed him with a solemn blue stare. "Tell me the story again."  
  
He resisted the urge to wince. "No, Sophie, I don't have time today. Besides, you know the story by heart now, I've told you so many times." He gestured to the piece of paper in the ashtray. "Go ahead."  
  
Without a word, Sophie set to her task. With practiced ease, she flipped up the cover on the lighter, stroked the mechanism with her thumb, and was rewarded with a pale orange flame. She touched the flame to the edge of the paper, jumping as the paper disappeared in a bright flash.  
  
Her father grinned. "That part always surprises you, doesn't it?"  
  
"Yeah, it goes so fast!" Sophie returned her father's grin as she brushed the ashes into a nearby trashcan.  
  
The man checked his watch; it was time to go. "All right, Sophie. You be a good girl now." Sophie threw her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly, and he kissed the top of her head, trying to engrave on his mind the feeling of her warm body pressed against him. "I love you."  
  
"I love you too, Papa." She let go of him, and he nearly broke down as he saw the light of pure trust shining on her face.  
  
~She thinks I'm her hero. I don't deserve her.~ He smiled at her one last time, then headed out of the office. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard her call him back.  
  
"Papa?"  
  
He turned to see her standing in the doorway, his gun glittering darkly in her hand.  
  
"You forgot this."  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
Ten years, three months and two days.  
  
That was how long it had been since he had made the break with Paradigm's insidious machine. No memory-wiping Event had diminished the hatred still burning within him for the master of puppets, Alex Rosewater. Nothing had ever been able to blot out the screams of his wife as Rosewater's goons cut her down in a hail of bullets, or the frantic cries of his baby daughter as she lay in her crib, frightened by the noise of gunfire.  
  
And what was worse, he'd brought it on himself. If he'd just been a good little stooge and done what he was told, Emma would still be alive, Sophie would be enrolled in the exclusive State-run school, and they'd all still be living in the plush State villa. Instead, he had a conscience that refused to allow him the luxury of being a mindless marionette.  
  
To this day, he still couldn't believe what his own father had done, what his own father had allowed to happen. He himself had only been a youngster, fifteen years old when the Big Four-Gordon Rosewater, Timothy Wayneright, Ricard Soldano and John Jamieson-his father, the head of the State police-had decided to right the world's wrongs by taking away everyone's memories.  
  
The words his father had said still rang in his ears, drowning out the noise of the city street.  
  
~Think of it, Jonny. No one will remember war. No one will remember words like "hunger" or "oppression" or "racism" if we are successful.~  
  
The thought of such an Event had boggled his young mind. Even as a child, the idea of free thought being snatched away brought a cold sweat to his brow.  
  
~What happens if you don't do it right, Father?~ he had demanded. ~Don't people have a right to decide how they live?~  
  
Now that he himself was a parent, he realized that the anger his father had displayed over this comment was a by-product of panic, like scolding a child who crossed a busy street without looking both ways first. His father had known that to defy Paradigm was to die, something the son realized not long after.  
  
~This world is corrupt!~ His father had raged. ~We can give our children a perfect world. With our technology, it's possible!~  
  
A group of youngsters passed him on the street, laughing as they splashed through the puddles of ever-present rain. For a moment, they wore the faces of those long-ago youngsters: himself, then a chestnut-haired kid with his mother's blue eyes; nineteen-year-old Chip Soldano, with his flashing black eyes and a ready grin; Dorothy Wayneright, a slender beauty of eighteen with a shock of russet hair; and little Alex Rosewater, a friendly, inquisitive child of ten. There had been nothing any of them could have done to stop the silent Apocalypse, and they had all stood side by side, watching as the countdown finally reached zero.  
  
There had also been nothing to do when the whole scenario went terribly wrong.  
  
Shaking his head, he let the memory slink back into the past. He had been over and over it time and again, trying to see if there was any small way he could have prevented the tragedies that followed the Event, but it only served to remind him of why he was in his present situation. John Sr. had known then that resistance was futile. When his son held Emma in his arms, watching in horror as she coughed out her life in a river of blood, he realized too late what his father had been trying to tell him.  
  
Things had been tough after that. He'd had to disappear from sight, leaving the secure life of a Paradigm State intelligence officer behind forever. Using his intelligence background, he erased himself and his daughter from Paradigm's database. There had been others who had done the same, or had simply fallen through the cracks in the confusion, and he now had a network of helpers-informants, doctors, merchants, traders on the black market. He had homeschooled Sophie as much as he could from the books he had managed to hoard. The only other thing he took from the past was the lighter, a gift from his beloved Emma just after Sophie was born.  
  
He stopped at the newsstand on the corner. The young man behind the counter knew the gray-haired man in the trenchcoat; he was a regular customer. The clerk smiled and held out the Paradigm Daily in exchange for a handful of coins, then tugged on the bill of his cap.  
  
"Thank you. See you next time."  
  
"Right. Have a good day." The man folded the paper in half, tucking it under his arm.  
  
The bar was on the next block. He waited for the light to change, then crossed in the midst of a crowd of people--who, he mused, didn't stop to think about the past, who managed to fumble through the shell of their lives as best they could. Paradigm liked people who didn't ask questions.  
  
He reached the bar and pushed open the swinging door. The room was filled with the bluish haze of cigarette smoke and a cacophony of voices, even at this early hour. Paradigm had even sanctioned a State-run distillery, hoping to lessen the forbidden aspect of alcohol. All it had served to do was create the need for a State-run alcohol abuse cessation program.  
  
His usual table was open, so he sat down after nodding to the bartender. Knowing his scotch on the rocks would be delivered momentarily, he slipped the radio out of his pocket and unwound the earpiece cord from around the radio. He fitted the phones into his ears and plugged the cord into the jack, adjusting the tuner to the underground frequency. The radio went back into his pocket, where he tapped the hidden contact in the forbidden code; dots and dashes that the citizens of Paradigm City had forgotten like the good, malleable children they were.  
  
~I am waiting for contact. Stand by.~  
  
The tones chirped softly in his ears. ~We receive you. Begin when ready.~  
  
The bartender left the scotch on the table. The man sipped the caramel- colored liquid, wondering what real scotch, like the bottle his father kept in the dining room hutch, must have tasted like. He was glad when he didn't have to wait long for his contact to arrive.  
  
A young man entered the bar, making his way through the crowd of patrons. Though he was tall and slender, his shoulders and chest were broad, his sleek black hair gelled to the rigidity of a sculpture in obsidian. Bright black eyes, like a crow's, darted this way and that from behind dark glasses. Also like the inky raiment of a crow were his expensive, finely tailored clothes. He, too, was a regular, only having to reach out one black-gloved hand as he passed to receive his customary bottle of beer.  
  
The older man made a face behind his paper; leave it to the young to drink that swill. Suddenly, he felt old. The young man reminded him of himself, before his wife's death, when he still thought he could change things. Cocksure, slick, believing the world would turn on a dime for him-how he wanted to shake Roger Smith sometimes, to wake him up before it was too late.  
  
Then he remembered why he always came out here to give Roger the information he requested. Roger also had a conscience.  
  
The End 


End file.
